


Prey

by Ekala



Series: Assassin's Creed Kink Meme Fills [5]
Category: Assassin's Creed, Dexter (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-16
Updated: 2010-05-16
Packaged: 2018-07-27 00:45:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7596730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ekala/pseuds/Ekala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Thursday. Dexter had first seen him on a Thursday." De-anon from the (original?) Assassin's Creed Kink Meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prey

**Author's Note:**

> Presented unedited, for archival purposes only.

Thursday. Dexter had first seen him on a Thursday. He had been tracking another victim, down into the underbelly, near midnight. A flash of movement caught his eye and he had turned, just in time to see the shine of a blade sliding into a man's neck and the killer catching the body to rest it on the ground. He had frowned, turning back to his prey, thinking it was just another homicide he would have to analyze in the morning.

Friday. The murder scene had been clean except for the sharp hole through the victim's chin into his skull. No forensic evidence, anywhere. Not a hair or a bead of sweat left behind. Even the victim's blood had been neat, leaving an almost perfect circle below him. Dexter had become intrigued.

Saturday. He had caught his victim, the fly in the net, and was carefully folding him into the plastic-covered trunk. Another flash. Another man. He had almost gone to look, to catch him then, but his prey would only wait so long and all preparations had been finished. He was a patient man. Dexter was a lucky hunter this night - he had caught one and found another.

Sunday. This was the first prey he hadn't found through the police station. It was risky, but the murders were so... simple. Fast. He didn't know how the man managed to do that without leaving any evidence. It was fascinating. The second victim was much the same, a clean stab through the neck. It was a small blade, perhaps a dagger, but very thin. He'd never seen quite such a small weapon be so effective. Dexter wanted to know how he worked.

Monday. A slow day for both of them, it seemed. He had been looking through the databases for similar murders, and the hits had totaled in the thousands, all across the country and throughout the years. Many were marked as solved, closed cases, but he bet that they were attributed to the wrong people. One man could not do all of this, but a select few with a system could. He singled out the murders in the area over the last ten years, and enough had come up that he believed Harry's Code was perfectly justified. Dexter had chosen his prey.

Tuesday. He had wandered about the underworld again, watching and waiting for the one he knew would be there, somewhere. He had thought about it again, about the murders, and had realized that the man had fallen, supposedly from the roofs. So that was where he was looking. And, indeed, around one o'clock, there was a movement on top of one of the smaller buildings, then down the side, sliding onto the street as if he belonged there. He had discreetly followed him back to a home, one he could check on and raid later. Dexter had located him.

Wednesday. He watched the house. No one went in or out. It was a nice suburban house, one supposedly owned by one Dorothy Rose. She had been in Italy for nearly eight months now, but she was still making payments on the house. No one kept something they weren't going to use. There had been no movement inside the house, either, as far as he could tell, but he couldn't risk going inside. And so Dexter watched.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. He watched. A routine, or enough of one, was established. Simply enough: the man left at night, and came back in the morning. That was when he would have to check the house. And so, he did. The lock was easy enough to pick, and he slipped inside easily. It was well-furnished, with classic art pieces and furniture scattered about. Tasteful, he supposed, but he wasn't much of an art critic. He looked through books, addresses, phones, anything that would tell him more about this mysterious man but there was nothing. Everything was addressed or property of Miss Rose. Perhaps he was better than Dexter himself.

Monday. Another murder. Clean, perfect. Still no evidence. Dexter decided.

Tuesday. He picked the kill room. Plastic and duct tape. Gloves and knives. Pictures and shrines. Dexter was ready.

\--

Wednesday. He whistled his way through work, dealing with some jeers from his coworkers about getting laid. He might as well be, he supposed. To him it was very much the same. A good kill gave him an amazing sense of satisfaction. He waited until the man had left, slipping into his house and waiting in the corner behind the doorway. He sat there, in the dark, bristling with anticipation for hours. Finally, the man strode back through the door, tall and proud and almost arrogant. Dexter's syringe slid easily into his neck, and he fell like any other man.

Dexter took his time tying him up. He had used more than the normal amount of sedative, as a precaution. He was a built man, dark-skinned and a bit younger than Dexter himself. His clothes were more elaborate than they first seemed, layers of heavy cloth and leather, and the bracer on his wrist was the mysterious weapon he had wondered about. A hidden blade. Interesting, and somehow... old-fashioned. However, stripped down and plastered to the table, he looked like every other killer he had gotten rid of.

Slowly, he awoke. Dexter had left out the cotton, wanting to talk to him for a while if he could. There was surprisingly no panic in his eyes, only cool acceptance. Dexter gestured around him, at the myriad of pictures, old and new, newspapers and internet postings. The man smiled.

"You're unashamed of your kills." Dexter sighed dramatically. "Some people just never learn." He twirled his scalpel. This man was... different, somehow. He did not fear death. He did not deny or beg or plead. Scenarios ran through his mind, even as he reached out towards his victim's cheek, to get his trophy. 

It hit him. He looked up, around again. Names ran through his head, of each of the man's victims. Drug dealer. Murderer. Assault. Abuse. Each of them had been accused but not convicted. How had he not seen it? How had he not noticed? This man, he was like him. They were the same. They channeled it the same way.

He backed up, stumbling. He took a long, shaky breath, removing his gloves. Slowly, he stepped forward again, cutting the plastic against the table. The man smiled, shaking his head a bit.

"You are a work of art, my friend." Heavily accented, Italian. That would account for his looks, then. "It seems you and I have had a bit of a misunderstanding." Dexter finished cutting through the restraints around his legs, smiling vacantly.

"So it seems. I apologize. I... should have been more thorough." The man shook his head again, laughing.

"I've been busy recently. I understand why you felt the need to be quick." He stood, rolling his shoulders. "May I have my clothes back?" Dexter handed him the pile from the corner, watching as he pulled his pants back on. All was silent for a minute.

\--

"So, mysterious man. What is your name?" The man laughed.

"You were going to kill me and you do not have my name?" Dexter thought he probably looked properly ashamed. "Ezio. Ezio Auditore." He held out his hand for a shake. "I do not know your name either, but I assume you are the one who has been stealing my kills, making people disappear from time to time?"

"Dexter Morgan." Normally he would hesitate to give out a name, but this man knew the game, knew the monster, and knew how to handle it. He was in no position to hold back information. He took the hand, shaking it firmly. "Auditore. So you are Italian. The house that you live in - your family's?" Ezio shook his head.

"A good friend's. It's not under her real name, either." He chuckled. "It seems I have stumped a friend. Not bad." Ezio fastened his bracers back on, running his fingers over them. "I am an assassin. Part of an ancient society. We... take out the garbage." Dexter, for once, couldn't help the smile.

"I see. But as such, you are more secretive than a single facility working under his own code." Ezio nodded.

"You are remarkable, my friend. I have never seen such ritual and skill in a kill like this. You are very careful. You would make a great addition to our Order." He smiled at Dexter, chuckling again. "But I know you would never come." He stood, still halfway dressed, reaching a tenative hand out to Dexter's cheek, brushing it lightly. "You are a piece of art, yourself. A monster lurking behind a beautiful mask." Dexter stared at him impassively. This man seemed to be able to see straight through him.

He hadn't expected him to lean forward and kiss him, though. Dexter blinked, a bit taken aback, not responding nor rejecting the action. Ezio pulled back after a moment, still smiling enigmatically, stroking Dexter's cheek softly.

"Continue being a good man, Dexter. And find me again, if you wish to talk. I am always available." He stepped back, pulling on his shirt and cloak, gathering the rest of his belongings and bowing with a flourish of his hand. "Until later, my friend."

Dexter was left with three things: the question of why Ezio considered him a friend, the lingering sensation of lips on his own, and an unused killroom. Yes, they would have to meet again, later. There were too many questions left unanswered.


End file.
